Harry sighs as he stared at another term sheet, his eyes blurring from boredom. He really doesn't care whether or not Ke$ha gets two tour buses on her tour or twenty. It really doesn't fucking matter. He shouldn't even be doing this. Why should he be the one to decide how many tour buses there are? What a mundane job. A number cruncher should be deciding this shit. They're much more equipped to make these kinds of decisions.
He leans back in his office chair, rubbing his hand frustratedly over his handsome face, scratching lightly at the stubble slowly starting a five o'clock shadow. He wanted to grow scruff, but Eleanor wouldn't let him.
He just wanted to be a fucking man.
He stared at his reflection in the computer screen, able to see himself far more clearly than he expected because it's gone dark from non-use. He subconsciously starts humming out a melody that's been weaving in his mind all day, letting the music swell in his head as he avoids doing what he's supposed to. His fingers are itching for an instrument — any instrument — a guitar, a piano, fuck! A kazoo would work at this point. He just needs to get the music out.
He glanced down at his watch. 3:30. Not even close to the time he's supposed to go home. Plus, he has work to do. He turns to blink again at the blank computer, hitting the mouse to see the term sheet stare teasingly back at him. With a sigh, he kicks his socked feet up in the desk and grabs the wireless keyboard, annoyingly hitting the down arrow with a huffed, annoyed sigh.
His ears perk up when he hears laughter from outside of his office door, a laugh he had grown to love — and he leans back in his chair to see me unknowingly standing frozen in the front door of the office, my cheeks a touch of pink from the cold, my long, chestnut hair sweeping across my shoulders.
Long hair...
The thought leaves him as soon as it enters. I shake my head as I get accustomed to the warmer inside temperature, a dimple forming in my cheek as I smile welcomingly at Hannah. The music swells in his heart, the sight unfolding before him making him long even more for something to play.
"Nice color, Hannah," I offer. She chuckled in response, while I hear Harry sigh. I know he hates it when she's painting her finger nails, or worse — her toes. But ever the gentleman, he never complains.
"I know! It's called — 'Hey Vito, is the Car Red-y!" Hannah smiled. I pause a moment, watching her oblivious face before I bust out laughing, eliciting a chuckle from Harry as well. He must be listening.
"Oh, thanks Hannah. I needed that," I laugh with a sigh, patting her arm before starting to head towards Harry's office.
"Is it funny?" she asks, confused. "I don't get it."
"Think about it for a minute, Hannah. It'll come to you..." Harry calls from his office, his feet immediately launching for the floor to stand up, his keyboard clambering against the desk as I walk in.
"Hey," I smile softly, holding binders of papers against my chest tightly. Being around him still makes me nervous after everything from Christmas, so I just loiter against the doorway.
I'm wearing a pea coat and a green scarf that contrasts my eyes enough to make them as bright as emeralds, the outfit meant to keep me warm in the still chilly beach weather. My hair is long and splayed delicately over my shoulders unintentionally. Harry can't stop eyeing it, longing over the long hair his fiancé took away today.
"Eleanor sent me over with some more stuff for the wedding," I sigh. Harry turns his head back to the black computer screen, anger rising in his chest at the mere mention of his fiancé's name.
As he peers at his reflection, he can see the frown plastered on his face, the deep wrinkle lines threatening his brow as his eyes are darker than he's ever seen them. For a moment, he doesn't even recognize himself. He looks old, so much older than he ever remembers looking, the spark from his eyes long gone. He reaches up to toussle his hair, a habit he's had since he was a kid, hoping to shake the age off of him. Unfortunately, he's not a 20 year old pop star anymore. There are no girls screaming for him, wishing he was in their bed and playing with his long locks. No, now he's a washed up musician stuck in a corporate job with a fiancé that loves to make him miserable. And who hates his hair.
"She has a preliminary guest list here, and some options for the menu..." I trail, interrupting him from his thoughts.
"Do you like me better with long hair?" he asks, ignoring my previous words.
All I can do is blink at him. To be fair, I've never seen him with real long hair. His hair now is what I would consider an overgrown short styled curling messily at the ends.
"Erm...I dunno." I shrug, not sure what else to say. "As I said, she's got the menu here—"
"Cause when I was younger I didn't like it long, and now that I'm older, I kinda like it —" he continued, as if he didn't hear me. "I mean, it's kind of a pain in the ass sometimes, ya know — when it's humid and stuff, but I like it. Hey! What do you think of Eleanor's hair?"
He looks over at me, in which I can only raise an eyebrow at him before dropping the ridiculous bag Eleanor had gotten me for Christmas. "Are we seriously talking about hair right now?" I laugh.
What is wrong with him?
"Yeah, I dunno..." he offers, blinking hard before reaching for the papers in my hands, getting comfortable again in his office chair. "Guest list, that's what you said this was, right?"
I nod, a portion of my dark hair getting messily in my way as I pull my scarf off before I have a chance to pull it gently behind my ear, the actions making the melody swell in his mind, replaying one chord and then the next. He shakes his head, forcing himself to stop watching me as he fully has the stack of papers, looking through them. It doesn't take long before his brow furrows.
"Shit. I don't know half of these people," he slows, biting his bottom lip as he flicks through page by page.
"Oh, sure you do," I offer, rounding the corner of his desk and leaning over it and his shoulder to look with him, my hair falling a little into my face again, letting the scent of mangos assault his nose from the close proximity.
He looks at me, frowning. Since when did my hair smell like mangos? It was supposed to smell like cherries.
"Look — you know them!" I offer. "The Russels. You and Eleanor had lunch with them a little bit ago..."
"Did you change your shampoo?" He interrupts, his voice surprisingly demanding.
"Umm...yeah?" I offer nervously, running my fingers through my hair as I stand. "Does it bother you?"
"No," he sighs, shaking his head, trying to focus on the paper in his hands. "It's just different," he says quietly. Everything is different.
His chest tightens.
"Harry! I'm leaving for the day!!" Hannah calls from outside his office, offering him a small wave before her heels click away down the hall, announcing her departure.
He doesn't respond, just staring at the multiple pieces of paper in his hand, scanning name by name that he might vaguely recognize, but wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd if he had to. His eyes continue to search, page by page, until he finally finds his family on the bottom of the last page. Finally! His guests. Unfortunately, his chest constricts again as he goes to flip it over, but that's it. The only people from his side were his parents, sister, grandparents, and cousin Lauren. That was it. The last page.
"I don't know these people, Livvy..." he scowled, dropping the packet on his desk.
"No!" I say, trying to justify it. I look over the pages and point. "Come on, look — there's Lauren!"
"Nick isn't even fucking on here!" He scowls. My body tenses at the harsh tone of his voice.
"Well," I say slowly, still defending something I'm not even sure I should be defending. "He's your best man...he doesn't need an invitation."
Harry shoots me a dubious look.
"Right?" I ask, my eyes full of hope as I take in his form. The music swells in his head, the melody calling out to him.
"Yeah, I guess..." he just stared off into space, and I felt bad. All I could do was pat his shoulder.
"I'll make sure he gets one, Harry..." I offer, gently pushing the hair off of his forehead for him in a loving manner. "I'll talk to your mom tomorrow too, see who else I can add to the guest list for you, ok?"
"Thanks, Livvy..." he offers feebly, his eyes fluttering closed as the pads of my fingertips brush against his forehead, the music swelling so loudly in his head. He wants — no needs — to play the piano so badly right now.
"And here's the catering menu," I offer, slipping another piece of paper on top of the pile in front of him. He quickly grabs it and scans it.
"Duck?" He hisses, the melody screeching to a halt. "I hate duck."
"There's lamb on there too," I point out, hoping to be helpful.
The lightness of my voice is laced with something he can't quite place. It's hard for him to think because the music crescendos, almost blurring his vision as it does. Something is happening to him, and he doesn't understand it.
Something has felt amiss all day today, since this morning, really. Everything was fine at his morning meeting, but then he dropped by Eleanor's Office to see her hair. The sharp edges that blended down into her cheekbones made her look harsh and rigid, the former roundness of her face giving way to the sharp angles around her jaw. God, her eyes. They looked like huge round ice rinks in her skull.
There was no way that was the woman he had first fallen in love with.
She didn't look anything like her anymore, nor did she act like her either. His girl had soft, golden curls cascading down her back, or occasionally in a messy bun or ponytail, with bright eyes and soft cheeks. She was classic and timeless, like a blonde Audrey Hepburn — not edgy and harsh like Victoria Beckham.
I'm still speaking to him, but he can't hear my words — too caught up in the mixture of his thoughts. But even though he's not comprehending my words, he's finally placed the emotion in my voice that he couldn't quite make out before.
Pity.
He shakes his head 'no' hard. "She and I both agreed to steak and chicken," he hears himself say in a voice that isn't really his own.
"She said that the chef suggested duck and lamb," I offer softly. I do pity him. I feel terrible, the look on his face makes my gut wrench. I lean over his shoulder again, hand touching it gently. "Maybe they can do something..."
The scent of mangos assaults his senses, and he tenses. "Whatever," he cuts me off, scowling at the piece of paper as he drops it on the desk. "I don't care. Whatever she wants is fine."
"Harry," I say softly. There's that pity again.
"No, really..." he says quietly, forcing a smile on his pink lips. "I still have my birthday, right?" he jokes.
My eyes widen, and I have to look away as I try to push this morning's interaction with Eleanor from my memory.
This is uncomfortable. I push myself off his desk, making a noncommittal noise as I round back to the front of it where I had dropped my bag on one of the chairs. I refused to look at him, avoiding his gaze by pretending to rummage through my bag, my hair conveniently covering my face so our eyes couldn't accidentally connect.
"Livvy..." he says slowly.
I didn't respond. He watches me carefully as I continue to avoid him with everything inside of me.
"Livvy..." he says again. "You look uncomfortable, like you don't want to tell me something..."
My eyes finally meet his in shock, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. I swallow hard, his green eyes piercing mine with confusion. "Now Harry..."
His eyes widen, and I hate that he can read me like a book. "She didn't..." he starts, standing up in a shocked fury I've never seen before. "Tell me she didn't..."
"Don't, uh....don't be upset," I offer in a panic, putting my hands up as if that could prevent him from boiling over.
"Olivia, my birthday is still a toga party, right? It's still at my place, and we're gonna have a few close friends and drink beer and play games..." he trails.
I knew he was going to be pissed.
"Right?" He urges.
"Well, I —"
"Right!?"
I can't help but look at the floor, pity bubbling up my esophagus. "It's going to be at The Social, the theme is black and white, she's inviting over 500 people, and it's wine and champagne only..." I mutter quickly, hoping that if I got it out faster, it would lessen the blow.
I look up at him again, waiting to see how he responds. I see his jaw clench a few times before he grabs the keyboard and slams it angrily against the wall. The noise makes me jump — I've never seen him this angry before.
"God fucking damnit!" He yells, his entire body rigid from the anger coursing through his veins. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to moderate his temper, but it's ineffective. He pushes the heel of his hands against his eyeballs, trying to relieve the pressure of the quickly approaching headache.
"I...I'm sorry. I...I tried to stop her, I really did..." I trail. There it is again, that pity.
"I...I can't do this," he whispers out, starting to pace. His voice was hollow, his breathing shallow.
Everything is different.
Everything has changed.
Even a simple shampoo scent isn't the same.
He doesn't even recognize his own life anymore.
When the hell did this happen!?
"Sure you can," I offer, feigning a sense of cheeriness and encouragement. But there's still pity in my voice. "I mean, it might suck a little, but —"
"No," he says slowly, stopping his pacing to put both hands on the desk. His chest tightens more. Is it hot in here? The melody rages on. "I..."
"Okay, well — I'll try to make some calls and see what I can do..."
"NO! Livvy!" he yells.
I gasp, shocked by his outburst and take a step back. The melody snuffs itself out. "I can't do this!"
He pushes back from the desk hard, slamming the office chair into the bookshelf behind him with a large thud. He barely notices the complete look of shock on my face from his sudden outburst, watching him round the corner. His breath is coming out in short pants, suddenly feeling claustrophobic even though he's now in the open space of the room.
"Harry," I offer quietly, my eyes holding on him steadily.
His face is now red and splotchy, sucking in deep breaths as he has what looks like might be a panic attack. His eyes are dark, almost black, a wild flare dancing across the irises as I walk closer to him.
Just as I'm about to reach him, he moves his hand to his tie, struggling to loosen it quickly as he sucks in as much air as possible, struggling to breathe. I've never seen him this way.
"I can't...I mean, what the hell am I doing!?" he chokes out, his voice completely manic at this point. He runs a hand through his hair, his curls becoming disheveled quickly.
"This isn't what I want!"
"We...we can fix this..." I offer softly, wish I could do something — anything — to make it better. To make him better. To make him happy.
"No," he sighs. "That's just it, Livvy..." he's pacing at this point. "This can't be fixed." His pace quickens, running his hands over his face as he grunts. "Not my birthday. Not the wedding. Fuck, especially not the wedding!"
I swallow hard, my eyes flicking between Harry and the open door to his office. Hannah is gone, but there's no telling who could walk in at any moment, and no one should see him like this. And it's my job to protect him. To keep his secrets. To love him.
Stop it, Olivia.
I move to take a step towards the door to close it, but Harry's voice interrupts me.
"There's no going back from this," he mumbles. "No, we're a fucking power couple," the venom in his words making me shiver. "There are rules!! We have to have this caterer, and she had to wear this dress, and we need to use this chef, and we have to get married in this location in front of these people. These fucking people that I don't even know!! This isn't a wedding, it's a goddamn circus!"
"Harry," I say again, wishing I could calm him down.
His pace is quickening, and he's almost getting dizzy from waltzing in circles, but he can't stop. He's coming to something — some revelation. He doesn't know what, but he can feel it. And he can't stop now.
"I don't want this," he says, shaking his head.
I bite my bottom lip, wanting to cry for him. Watching this, even though it should make me happy in some sick, sadistic way — actually makes me want to cry. I hate seeing him this upset.
"It's what she wants, Olivia!" he mumbles, shaking his head. "It's what she wants, Livvy. It's always what she wants. Don't think I don't fucking know, okay? I'm not an idiot."
I feel a wrench in my gut, and all I can do is listen.
"When did I stop caring? When did I just — fuck! Let her walk all over me! Christ! She picks my clothes, my hair, my food — how much weight I lift at the gym!" he grunts. "And — and when she doesn't get her way, she changes fucking everything!""
"Harry..."
"She didn't like my party idea, she fucking changed it. She doesn't like my hair getting longer, so she chopped off all of hers!" His arms flail.
"Nothing is the same!!" He yells. He laughs again, bitter and angry this time. "What the fuck do I have now?"
I feel as if my heart is about to beat out of my chest, and he stares at me in anger, his eyes and heart ablaze. I can tell how angry he is, angry at himself and at Eleanor, and at everyone who never made him see that this was happening. I wanted so badly to reach out to him, to touch his face, and tell him — tell him what? Something. Anything. He just looks so lost.
I finger the pendant he gave me around my neck, hoping it could give me guidance on what to do here.
"You have a lot," I offer, taking a small step closer to him. He just laughs.
"What? A big fancy penthouse with a view of the ocean? A white collar job?" he steels, flicking the collar of his shirt sarcastically. Just when he thinks his chest can't get any tighter, his chest constricts more, taking another breath.
"Where's the music, Livvy," he chokes out.
I gasp at the words, my heart breaking with his, for him. My hand clutches the necklace and I hold it to my chest, tears threatening my eyes. I feel so helpless. I feel even more so for him.
"You asked me before," he starts, our eyes connecting. "You asked me why I stopped the music," he bites back.
"I gave it up because she told me to." He chuckles at the confession, and my heart splits in two.
"I stopped recording because she said there were other things I could be doing, that I should expand my horizons and try different things. Then I stopped producing because she said it was too taxing; it kept me away too much. And then I stopped writing because...because..." he bites back the pain in his heart. "Because it annoyed her."
He releases his head, letting it fall back as he takes in a few deep calming breaths, the weight of actually saying the truth out loud to another human freeing him in a way he hadn't experienced before.
He suddenly feels exhausted and weak, sidestepping so he can fall into one of the armchairs in front of his desk, crumpling wearily into it — willing it all to just go away.
I'm stuck, pausing to think about what to do now. "Ok, well...first, let's um...close this door," I offer, making my way to shut the door that was gaping open.
He laughs bitterly. "Yeah, don't want any of this getting out."
I venture back to him, stepping over him and sitting on the coffee table in front of him, my knees sliding between the open expanse between his legs. My hands go to his knees to comfort him. Our eyes connect, and our breaths deepen. The emotion between us thick, complicating the lines of vulnerability.
"You know, ever since I was a little kid," he starts, tugging on his slacks a little. "I wanted to get married in the little church in Holmes Chapel. My grandpa's church, where I grew up." A wistful smile tugs at his lips, and I return it. "Or maybe outside, you know — at my parent's place."
His brow furrows as he thinks, weighs, tries to decide. The light suddenly snuffs out of his eyes and sadness creeps over his features. "None of that matters, I guess."
"Of course it matters, Harry!" I offer, hand reaching up to cup his face, but I also realize it's probably inappropriate right now. I pat his knee instead. "You can't do this if it's not what you want."
"Don't you get it, Livvy. I don't have a choice," he whispers. My brows furrow, looking up at him confused. "You don't get it...you're. You're normal."
I laugh sadly. "Normal? Have we met?" I chuckle.
He sighs. "You don't have to deal with the same stuff she and I have to deal with. There's all of this pressure." He breathes out heavy, wishing the pressure would flow out with it, and all I can do is squeeze his knee. "This is the way things are done with people like us. Especially her parents..."
"But it's not what you want..." I say, still confused, still not understanding what he means. So what he's "special" and "people like him" deal with pressure. He can still do what he wants. "This isn't what marriage is supposed to be..."
He reaches up to rub his forehead. I want to tell him that he's more than this, that he's more than just being a piece of arm candy to Eleanor Baker. I want to tell him he deserves more than a fancy show pony parade of a life and a lifetime of bowing down to Eleanor's every whim. I bite my lip hard, ensuring that last thought doesn't accidentally slip out.
"Harry. Marriage is about two people who love each other," I say softly. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, our faces inches apart. "It's not about the flowers and the food and all the bullshit. It's about you promising your life to another person. Hell, it's not even about the wedding. That's just a day. It's about every day after that, for the rest of your life, continuously trying to prove to the other person that you somehow deserve them sticking there with you through it."
Our eyes are deeply connected, the air barely passing through us. I had no idea that I was echoing the same sentiments he had been sharing with Eleanor for over a year.
Honestly, those sentiments are why he let Eleanor get to where they were today. He didn't care about the ceremony. It was just a day, and he wanted her to be happy. He wanted the rest of his life with his girl.
But at the expense of his own happiness? He was beginning to realize that her completely disregarding his opinion and preferences didn't exactly bode well for their future.
"What do I do?" he finds himself asking. His eyes meet mine, and he just looks so lost.
The words "leave her" are right at the tip of my tongue, but I refrain from using them. Dare I say it? What would be even do? I wonder if he would violently oppose the thought, or if he would sit in silent contemplation. I wonder if he would look at me, really look at me. And see me for the woman who is madly in love with him, enough to sit here and listen to him rant and rage about a woman who doesn't give a flying fuck about him without a single second of interjection.
I can't help but scold myself for even entertaining being that girl — the girl that swoops in and takes the opportunity of a vulnerable man and — my mind stutters, pausing the thought train. I scold myself silently.
This isn't a romance novel, Olivia. There is no happy ending.
"Harry —"
"I love her, Olivia —" his voice is thin, and when our eyes connect again, I can plainly see the hurt, the fear, the aching for Eleanor to be the girl he fell in love with. His girl. "I love her."
He sighs, leaning back in his chair again, his face crumpled in sadness. I could easily say "leave her" or "come with me," "I won't hurt you the way she does," "I would love you so much better than her," "I do love you more than her already."
I could say those things, but the look on his face says that's not what he wants — or needs — to hear. The look on his face is enough to shove aside my selfishly pathetic thoughts and the truthful opinion that he could do better. I take my hands off his knees.
"You need to tell her," I offer, my voice more hollow than I expected. Harry looks up at me, eyes bright with hope that I would give him the million dollar answer. "You have to tell her how you feel."
"She won't listen to me..."
"You have to make her," I spit, and I can't believe I'm saying this out loud. "If you love her and want to make this work, you're going to have to start making her listen to you. You have to make her understand that what you want is just as important as what she wants. If you want to write music, write music! Record. Produce! Tell her how important it is to you. Make her understand. You have to stand up for yourself and not let her walk all over you."
He nods quietly, feeling like these things are far easier said than done.
The silence around us is deafening, and I search for something — anything — to fill the void so I don't recant everything I just said and tell him what I really want to say.
"You have to be..." I trail. "Business meeting Harry. Remember when you got the budget for Calvin's record? You were so sure of yourself. You went in there and got what you wanted and didn't take no for an answer." Harry's lips pull into a smirk and he chuckles slightly. "More of him. Less of pushover Harry."
He lets out a hearty laugh, the tightness in his chest leaving, and for the first time in his life, he feels like he can breathe again. He knows that I'm right. He's gone on too long coasting by. It's time he took his life back.
"How did this happen to me?" He chuckles, exhaustedly running his hand over his face.
"Sometimes we just get off track and lose our way," I mention, fingering my necklace. He smiles at me.
"You know..." he shifts awkwardly in his chair. Our eyes connect, and we're both momentarily stunned, caught in some well of emotion neither of us understand. He shakes his head, blinking hard.
"You're a good friend to me, Livvy..." he whispers, still feeling something when I look up at him through my lashes. "No really, there's...there's not a lot of people out there that I can trust..." he catches his breath when he notices the gold flake in my right eye he had never noticed before, the light catching it just right. "I guess I just wanted to thank you."
"Hey," I mutter, chuckling nervously. The guilt eats at me, knowing that we shared a barely-there kiss that we pretend never happened and that I'm madly in love with him. "What are friends for?"
The words taste bitter as they leave my tongue.
All I want to do is tell him the real truth, not the one he needs to hear because I love him enough to care about what he wants and needs. The truth that Eleanor is horrible for him, and despite all of his greatest efforts and wishful thinking, it will probably never change. She will never change. She will never again be the woman he fell in love with. But when I look at him, I see the determination in his eyes. He's not ready to give up yet, and he's going to have to come to that revelation on his own.
"So," I say, standing. "I'll call Anne and have her email me that list for the wedding..."
"Yeah..." Harry nods, standing as well. Our bodies are inches away from one another. He's so much taller than me, so I can't help but gaze up at him through my lashes — and he marvels at how sometimes my beauty just slaps him in the face. "I'll talk to Eleanor about the party."
"Are you sure," I ask, eyes searching his longingly. "I can try..."
"No," he says, blinking. "No, I need to do it. She'll never really get it if I don't. It's the only way we're going to make it."
He steps away from me, moving to go behind his desk. I sigh, letting my eyes close and wishing like hell I had just had the courage to say what I had really wanted to say.
—
A/N
Hi lovelies! How was your week?
A new chapter for you! Super long one - over 5,000 words! Daaaamn, son!
On to the chapter commentary. Friend-zooooooned! Bet you didn't see that coming.
I feel for Olivia. She loves him so much that she just wants to see him happy. But will he ever be able to figure out what actually makes him happy? Can Eleanor actually be the woman she used to be?
Let me know your thoughts! So grateful for your love and support as always! Don't forget to comment and vote!
Xoxo